“Dro,” Celoa pleaded in a soft voice, clasping his hands together over his heart and bowing slightly. “Can I please not eat that thing that looks like a bug? It feels so strange.”
Droville raised an eyebrow. He picked up a knife and fork, leaned over, and with effortless speed, began slicing the food. In the blink of an eye, the dish that resembled a bug was chopped into tiny, unrecognizable pieces.
He pushed the plate just far enough so that it sat directly in front of Celoa, then answered unhurriedly, “See? Now it doesn’t look like a bug. You can eat it with peace of mind.”
Celoa’s eyes widened slightly. His gaze darted back and forth between the plate and Droville’s face. After a long moment, his little face crumpled into a pout, and he huffed out a fierce, “Dro, you’re so mean!”
Droville picked up a dipping sauce from the side and lightheartedly drizzled it evenly over the food. He nodded with satisfaction. Staring at Celoa’s indignant little face, he felt a sudden, unfamiliar sense of amusement.
“Oh? I’m a villain—did you only just find that out?”
Celoa’s vocabulary was limited; he usually rotated through the same few phrases. Now, with only two sentences exchanged, he was rendered speechless by the Great Demon King’s open admission of being a “villain.” He could only let out a series of “wu wu wu” sounds to express his discontent.
“Children shouldn’t be picky eaters,” Droville said, watching with great interest as Celoa reluctantly picked up his utensils to begin the meal. Only then did he slowly reveal the reason: “Besides, this food is good for your body. If you want to stay here, eat more of it.”
Celoa’s vigorous swallowing paused for a second before he began chewing even harder. His cheeks puffed out, moving incessantly like a hamster stuffing its mouth. It was a picture of rounded cuteness. Droville rested his chin on his hand and admired the scene, his thoughts drifting. He reflected that if the Demon Realm ever held a gourmet competition, Celoa would be the undisputed champion—after all, very few people could make such ordinary food look so enticing while eating it.
Before Droville’s thoughts could wander any further, Celoa suddenly coughed twice. His face flushed red, and his small hands began thumping his chest forcefully, his expression one of great distress.
Droville sat up straight instantly. Frowning, he grabbed the still-warm milk, cupped the boy’s head with one hand, and pressed the rim of the cup against his lips. He spoke sternly:
“Celoa, open your mouth and drink the milk.”
Celoa obeyed. His rosy lips took in the rim, and as the cup tilted upward, he slowly leaned his head back, letting the silky milk flow into his mouth. After several large gulps, the feeling of the food being stuck in his chest gradually vanished, though it still didn’t feel entirely pleasant.
Droville couldn’t help but press a hand to his forehead, scolding, “Why are you eating so fast? No one is going to snatch it from you. What if something had happened?”
Celoa looked up, his gaze timid but his attitude toward admitting fault very sincere. “I’m sorry, Dro. I won’t eat that fast next time.”
Once he saw Droville’s expression soften, he quietly explained the reason for his haste: “Because I wanted to say thank you to Dro sooner. Dro is really super-duper good to me.”
Having said that, he tilted his head and thought carefully before adding shyly, “And, I want to spend time with Dro. If I eat too slowly, I’ll take up the time Dro spends on work.”
Celoa exaggeratedly drew a circle with his arms. “I saw it yesterday. There were files so, so high on the desk—higher than several of me! I feel like Dro must be very, very busy.”
Droville sighed and rubbed Celoa’s head.
“There’s no rush. Eat slowly. Work will never be finished anyway. Just be good and eat, and when you’re done, you can come work with me.”
Celoa’s eyes lit up instantly. His head unconsciously nuzzled against Droville’s palm, but before Droville could get a few more pets in, the boy quickly pulled back.
Droville looked down at his empty hand and let out a faint “tsk.”
Didn’t get to pet him. How annoying.
Droville’s study was usually quite desolate, with only mountains of paperwork for company. But today was different.
To give Celoa something to do, he had specifically ordered people to prepare a child-sized desk and chair, the quill pens and ink currently popular in the Human Realm, and a book titled Essential Vocabulary for Demon Realm Youth.
Even though that vocabulary book was as thick as a brick—enough to raise a massive bump if it hit someone’s head—Droville saw nothing wrong with it. He thought matter-of-factly that since Celoa was going to live in the Demon Realm permanently, it was only right to learn the language early.
He gave absolutely no consideration to the absurdity of making a small child learn “youth” level vocabulary.
In fact, he was currently envisioning a beautiful scenario where Celoa would finish the basic vocabulary in one week, learn high-level terms in two, and master the profound mysteries of magic by the third week.
But in reality, Celoa was not the prodigy he imagined. He truly, truly was just a very ordinary little angel.
Consequently, upon seeing this thick book of difficult and numerous words, Celoa’s first reaction was to knit his brows and clench his teeth. Only by doing so could he restrain his urge to run away.
Waaah, are Demon Kings always this scary? Even just staying with Droville means I have to learn such hard things?
Celoa didn’t understand. Celoa was overwhelmed. Celoa did not want to study.
The little angel, who had never been to school, obviously didn’t realize how much hope had been placed upon him. He thought this was just a normal teaching process. So, despite his confusion, after a brief struggle, he prepared to open the textbook and began his first difficult attempt at self-study.
The first page was slowly turned. The thin paper lay flat on the desk. The dense text was like a flood, instantly rushing into Celoa’s eyes and occupying his entire brain in moments.
Ah. A mental attack.
Celoa slammed the book shut with a snap. He panted, still in shock, his eyes full of disbelief as if he couldn’t comprehend why a small book possessed such immense power.
Droville’s gaze shifted over stealthily. He held a pen, sitting at his desk with a file spread out before him, seemingly focused on work. However, the text-heavy file didn’t attract his attention at all.
The tip of his pen had already drawn several ugly lines across it. One could only wonder if the poor demon who received this tattered file would let out a shrill scream upon seeing it.
After all, it looked as if the Lord Demon King had a serious grievance against them, given that the file had been defaced beyond recognition.
Who could have guessed this was just a small error caused by the Demon King’s distraction?
“Celoa,” Droville asked in a softened voice, “are you having trouble with your studies?”
Celoa turned his head in a daze. Looking at the mountain of files now, his gaze became even more reverent. He cast a look of pity at Droville, feeling as though he finally understood why Dro was always looking at him. He said, “Dro, don’t pay too much attention to me. I will study hard. You shouldn’t avoid your work either. We both need to concentrate.”
Having said his piece, he buried his head back in his book and began diligently tracing the characters onto the paper. His little face was solemn, as if he were performing a great deed.
Droville, having been inexplicably scolded, returned his gaze to his file and immediately saw the mess he’d made. He fell silent for a moment, then quickly scrawled a large, flamboyant character in the approval section:
“GRANTED.”
Then, without looking further, he stuffed the file into the very middle of the approved stack, his movements betraying a hint of a guilty conscience.
Celoa straightened his back, carefully writing the characters from the book stroke by stroke. But even so, the complex script left his brain in a total muddle. After slowly learning to write a dozen or so words, his mental capacity was completely full.
It felt as though words were dancing before his eyes; every stroke and curve looked exactly the same.
He let out a soft, defeated “Ah,” only to realize he had already forgotten the few characters he had just written.
This is simply too unreasonable.
Celoa pressed his face against the desk, trying to use this method to straighten out his brain. But his chaotic thoughts were beyond his control. The harder he tried to remember the words, the more they swam around like little fish in his mind, vanishing into nowhere in an instant.
He unconsciously muttered to himself, trying to offer some comfort: “They’re just finding a place to hide in my head. As soon as I want to use them, they’ll show up.”
This method of self-encouragement revitalized Celoa. He went back to the first word and seriously transcribed it ten more times. Midway through, he even read it aloud several times according to the pronunciation guide, ensuring it was imprinted in his mind.
Celoa proudly named this method: “The Celoa Hand-and-Mouth Synchronized Double-Memory Method.”
The study was rarely this quiet. Droville’s work efficiency improved significantly—after all, with a child being so diligent right next to him, he felt embarrassed to slack off as an adult.
The two of them passed an hour in peace.
Finally, Droville couldn’t take it anymore. He released his pen and rotated his wrist, feeling a long-lost ache. Half of the mountain of files had been cleared; it looked like it wouldn’t take much longer to resolve them all. Relaxing, he cast another idle glance toward Celoa.
He froze for a second, then couldn’t help but burst into a low laugh.
The child was slumped half-sideways over the desk, his cheek pressed against his left hand, squeezing out a bit of baby fat. His eyes were closed, and he was sleeping soundly.
His hand still tightly gripped the quill, which scribbled something on the paper every now and then. Occasionally his head would dip, his hand would slip, and his cheek would slide downward. At those moments, he would snap awake like a startled rabbit, look left and right in a panic, then hurriedly scribble a few more lines. But before he could finish a single word, his head would start nodding again as he sank back into sleep.
It seemed the book was quite an effective sedative.
Droville stood up soundlessly and walked step by step until he was behind Celoa. Just as the boy’s head dipped again, Droville reached out, caught his cheek in his palm, and carefully laid his face down on the desk.
He pulled the quill from Celoa’s hand and looked down to admire the work, which had transitioned from neat to wild and finally to a total scribble—remarkably similar in style to the file he had just defaced.
The corners of his mouth quirked up. Looking at Celoa, he felt a strange lack of any dissatisfaction or frustration. He just stared silently at the boy’s face pressed against the text, then thought with a touch of playful malice:
When he wakes up, Celoa is going to find out he’s become a “doodle-face.”
At the thought, Droville’s prankish side took over.
He lifted the quill in his hand. The tip landed lightly on Celoa’s cheek and began to trace a delicate pattern. A small design gradually took shape on the boy’s sleep-flushed face.
Finally, Droville clapped his hands, placed the quill back on the stand, and returned to his own desk.
Warm orange light filtered through the window, landing right on Celoa’s face.
A little pig’s head was glowing in the light.